


Eventually We Find Our Way

by agent_orange



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Long-Distance Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-05
Updated: 2014-06-05
Packaged: 2018-02-03 13:54:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1747055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agent_orange/pseuds/agent_orange
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You made it," Nate says quietly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eventually We Find Our Way

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to jones6 and eudaimon for betaing.

Between Tim's internship and Nate's demanding new job in D.C., time together doesn't happen as often as either of them would like. Sure, they Skype once a week and email often, but that hardly makes up for the lack of physical contact or presence. Nate still hasn't gotten the hang of talking to a computer screen, even if Tim's looking right at him, whether it's about the latest political scandal or what he wants to do when they see each other again.

Seven hours round trip isn't terrible—it definitely could be worse, though it's not great, either—but finding the time is more of the problem. Eighty-hour weeks are relentless, and Nate knows Tim doesn't have the energy to do more than eat, sleep, and study when he's off, and Nate's own schedule isn't particularly generous. It's how things have to be, though, until Tim takes his licensing exam and decides on a hospital for residency. Preferably one closer to Nate—Georgetown University Hospital is Tim's first choice, and he's pretty confident about it, so Nate tries to be, too.

It's still hard for Nate to think of him as Tim instead of Doc, sometimes. He's so used to him being the bitter, cynical Corpsman who'd do anything for a patient, Marine or civilian, and the cognitive dissonance between that person and who he is now is hard. They both agreed that anything other than first names would be weird in bed, though, and he's willing to guess Tim has similar feelings about Nate's first name.

Even after seven months of talking as often as they can and seeing each other when their schedules allow, to Nate, the whole thing seems brand-new. It's probably the lack of time they can spend together. Of course, Tim's seen Nate at his worst, so anything after that is easy in comparison.

They planned this months ago, negotiating meetings and shifts and patients, before Meg had reminded Nate that they could schedule every minute of the weekend and something could still _go_ wrong. So Nate stopped planning and gave his assistant the blackout dates. If Iran had a nuclear meltdown, well, somebody else could fucking deal with it.

His mind races in the car, unstoppable by any means. Luckily, he knows the drive up to Baltimore like the back of his hand, vaguely aware that Quantico's at his back on the trip he's making to see his...boyfriend, Nate supposes. They haven't really labeled this thing between them, but that's what it is.

They don't have a lot of time together, but they have this: two and a half days in a hotel that's a bit of a splurge. Hours to talk and fuck and sleep. Plans to have dinner at Nate's parents' house, so they can eat a real dinner (and so Tim can meet them, which Nate is freaking the fuck out about—his family's open-minded, sure, but he's worried about a personality clash).

Nate gets to the hotel first (he lives closer) and checks in, texting Tim to let him know he's there and that a key's waiting for him at the front desk. He doesn't get a response, but he knows Tim refuses to even touch his phone while driving, so he's not worried.

The shower's huge, much bigger than the one at Nate's place. He turns the water up as hot as it'll go, his skin turning pink under the spray beating down on him. If he wanted, he could jerk off—he's half-hard and getting all the way there—but waiting's better, he decides. After months of coming only into his own hand, he wants something more.

The steam and heat make Nate tired; he dries off, pulls on a pair of boxers, and lies down, not bothering to get under the comforter.

*

He dozes until the slide of the keycard and Tim's footsteps wake him, and then he sits right up, rubbing his eyes as Tim drops his bag and walks over to the bed.

"You made it," Nate says quietly. "Missed you." He feels exposed, but doesn't want to get up to dig a shirt out of his duffle.

Tim just kisses him in response, fingers running through Nate's still-damp hair. He tastes like Coke and pretzels, most likely bought when he stopped to fill up on gas. The cotton of his worn t-shirt is soft, and his skin is warm, making Nate's dick twitch in his shorts.

"Happier to see me than I thought," Tim says. He kicks off his shoes, letting Nate pull him into bed. Their foreheads bump as Tim ducks his head, and they take a minute to get re-situated, Nate's legs on either side of Tim's hips.

"Fuck," he says. "You're wearing too many clothes." But Nate doesn't actively do anything to change that; instead, they kiss until Nate's breathless and Tim's eyes are almost entirely pupil. "Enough," he insists, and then they get Tim naked as quickly as possible while trying not to separate.

He sucks Tim off, fingers digging into Tim's hips as he relaxes his throat all the way. His hair's grown out a little, just enough to grab onto, which Tim does as Nate curls his tongue around Tim's dick, bobbing his head.

Tim squeezes his shoulder and Nate looks up, hair partially obscuring his line of vision.

"Fuck," Tim says. "Just... _fuck_." He tries to thrust up but Nate pins his hips to the bed, keeping him trapped between the patterned cotton and Nate's mouth. Nate just sucks harder, purposely hollowing his cheeks as he slips two fingers behind Tim's dick, gently rubbing the soft skin there. He missed doing this—the weight of Tim in his mouth; making Tim feel good, getting him off—more than he'll say. For now, he shows it. Actions instead of words.

Nate's so hard already, and ignoring it is a challenge, even with Tim stroking encouragingly through his hair. So he goes all out, keeping track of the oxygen he has left, just in case.

It's not necessary. Tim's hips rise up as far as they'll go, stutter, and falter as he comes into Nate's mouth. The taste is something Nate didn't miss as much. He swallows anyway, wiping his lips when he's finished and letting a half-grin curl the edge of his mouth.

"Just...give me a sec," he pants. Nate does his best to wait patiently for Tim to recover. "Jerk yourself off for me," he says, pulling Nate up so his hands are resting on Nate's hips. "Want to see you."

They have time for games, for going slow and making things last, but now isn't the time for that. Nate picks the pace he likes, steady and a little rough, eyeing Tim's body beneath him as his hand moves. He moans, and Tim hesitates for a minute before letting his hand join Nate's, guiding him.

It doesn't take very long for Nate to get off. Not with both of them working in sync, Tim's mouth smearing wetly along Nate's jaw and neck. He can't get enough of it, arching into the touches even when his body protests, wrecked and overly-sensitive.

Normally he'd drop right off to sleep, but tonight he's wired, energy buzzing underneath his skin. When he stops feeling just sticky and starts feeling uncomfortable, Nate wets a washcloth from the bathroom to clean them both up, watching as Tim's dick gives a half-hearted twitch.

"So soon?" Nate laughs. "I think you'll need to at least buy me dinner first."

"Too fucking late for that," Tim says. "But I'd be willing to barter."

Which reminds Nate—his ankle has been bothering him for a couple weeks—nothing too intense, but the pain's been more intense than previous muscle strains. He mentions this to Tim, who sighs and curses and produces a travel-sized kit from his bag.

"Apparently I'm never gonna get rid of you fuckin' jarheads," he bitches, but there's a tiny smile playing at the edge of his mouth. "Between Person calling me three times a week asking me if his kid's normal, and you wearing yourself out on the mean streets of Washington..." Tim presses his thumb into the tibia, hand locked around Nate's ankle. (He's taught Nate the terms so Nate can describe his problems via phone or email. It's actually pretty helpful.)

"Ow, fuck, _ow_ ," Nate hisses. Tim shifts the pressure just a little and the pain isn't so bad.

"I'm gonna wrap it for you," he says. "Lay off it for a while, okay? Ice it every night, and try heat if the joint aches."

"Will do," Nate relents. "It's like you _want_ me to get fat."

"Maybe if you ate something besides takeout. No bullshit," Tim says. "I'll know. How many hours a day do you spend at the office?"

Nate tries to hide his face, but Tim doesn't let him. It's something he simultaneously loves and hates. "At least twelve, usually. Sometimes more, and when it's really bad, I sleep on the couch in the lobby."

"You work too fuckin' much."  

"I could say the same about you."

"Only for a little while longer," Tim amends. "Until I'm a resident. Then the schedule's slightly less crazy."

"In that case," Nate says, "how about we get some dinner? Get you used to eating at a normal time."

"As long as you promise to leave your office by six-thirty every night.

Nate sighs. "Deal."


End file.
